Bowhunt America

Article Topics

I had not thought much about him for awhile. It wasn’t that I was trying to forget about him. How could I? But a long whitetail season, a pile of deadlines and the rush of family life had me going in three different directions all at once. But on a cold Colorado afternoon while doing some of those inescapable errands, I caught my mind drifting away. Not the most prudent thing to do while driving in traffic. It wasn’t until I passed the last entrance to the strip mall that I realized my mind had wandered to those ten days I had spent the previous season chasing a king.

It was during a 9-mile pack trip deep into the West Elk Wilderness for a drop-camp hunt that the outfitter told me about him. He said while guiding some eastern city slickers on an alpine fly-fishing trip he saw the buck in question hanging out with a half dozen other velvet-racked mentionables in a drainage well above timberline. He said I would know I had found him by his near “elk-sized” rack! Not to disparage any of my outfitter friends, but I have found over the years they tend to inflate the size of antlers just a bit. Needless to say, I was skeptical.

After putting the finishing touches on what would be my home for the next week or so, I grabbed my pack, bow and binoculars and headed to a high spot just above camp to do some late-afternoon glassing. Within minutes of settling in I spotted some good bucks feeding on the rich emerald alpine slopes. It didn’t take long for me to count over a dozen bucks in various bachelor groups across three
different bowls, many of which were 150- to 160-class animals. Now, a buck that size is no slouch—
even for Colorado—and under normal circumstances I would have grabbed my bow and attempted a sneak. That was until I saw him.

I can count on one hand the times a particular buck or bull literally sucked the wind right out of me, and this was definitely one of them. I had never seen a buck on the hoof quite like him, and from my perch over a half-mile away it was easy to see that he had everything. His tank-sized body dwarfed the two 160- inch bucks that were hanging out with him, and his gray-colored coat screamed maturity. But without question, it was his headgear that set him apart. His fire-hose-sized beams swept up from his head like a fountain and his 5x4 frame carried deep forks. Topping off his massive set of soft velvet bone was an inside spread that was every bit of 30 inches, if not a few inches wider. As my good friend and Pope & Young scorer Lynn Burkhead, who was with me on this trip chasing elk, so eloquently put it, “The buck will make you famous!”

Now, I’ve never considered myself much of a trophy hunter, and I certainly was not looking for my 15 minutes of fame, but when I saw him that first afternoon everything changed. Normally it’s not in my nature to seek a particular buck. Usually, that means an un-punched tag when the last day of the season rolls around, at least for me anyways. However, I knew this might be one of only a few occasions that I might have a chance to get close to such an animal. I had to try.

For the next four days I planted it on that high ridge watching his every move. Every morning as the eastern horizon poured golden light into the basin, I would find him nibbling on the green shoots with a couple of his buddies. Like clockwork they would work their way to a clump of spruce in the middle of the basin and bed down. Throughout the day I kept tabs on him as he re-positioned himself several times, and when mid-afternoon rolled around he headed to the highest slope to start the process over again. I really hated this waiting game, but I knew because of the capricious wind currents and lack of cover I would never get close enough to release.

The morning of day five dawned much the same, but when it came time for him to bed, he and his buddies walked right past that clump of spruce and disappeared into the timber on the north side of the bowl. This was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I knew nothing had spooked them and felt fairly confident that they would return to the openness of the bowl as the sun dipped to the west. I could not have been more right.

Seeing him at 100 yards really put him into perspective. He was a remarkable buck, and I knew there would only be one crack at him. I’d like to tell you that I was able to sneak in close enough to slip an arrow between his ribs; but when he reappeared, instead of just having two companions, nine others came bobbing out with him. My bowhunting instincts told me to wait—three sets of eyes are much easier to penetrate than ten—but in my undisciplined haste I tried anyway. I had almost crept into shooting distance when the black eyes of a young fork-horn burned holes through me.

I won’t lie to you; it hurt to see him run out of my life, and once again an exceptional animal caused me to come home with only his memory. But in retrospect, I would not have changed anything. Not many can say they had the opportunity to chase a king.

Enjoy this article? Share it!